


The more you live

by Canon_Is_Relative



Series: In Spite of All The Danger [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s remarkable, the damage the mind can do to itself, when left alone in the dark without its usual occupations and distractions."</p><p>When it's the one you love more than anything who's hurt you down to your bones, the recovery process isn't exactly straightforward.</p><p>A story of John adjusting to having Sherlock back in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The more you live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Under the Veil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099029) by [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/pseuds/frozen_delight). 



> Inspired by frozen_delight's story "Behind the Veil" based on my Danger 'verse.  
> Title from the Carbon Leaf song "Comfort," because of reasons.  
> AU from Sherlock canon post-season 1.  
> Additionally, contains spoilers for "Supernatural" through season 6.  
> John's line about internet porn a shameless tip of the hat to one of my favorite lines in the Sherlock/Supernatural crossover story "Of Ghosts and Men" by stardust_made.

From time to time, John allows himself to speculate. What would their lives have been like, if Sherlock hadn’t…

 

And that’s usually about as far as he gets, because there’s no good way to end that sentence. If Sherlock hadn’t _done what he did_? If Sherlock hadn’t _been Sherlock_?

 

When he gets low, gets maudlin, John finds his way around to the word he needs: If Sherlock hadn’t _died._

 

He’s resisted putting it that way, even to himself, for so long, that by the time he allows himself to say it, he’s forgotten why he clung to that self-denial for so long.

 

Sherlock hadn’t been dead, simply…hidden. Taken himself away from John; hidden behind the veil. The aptness of the metaphor hasn’t dulled over time. It’s been a year since he moved back into Baker Street, a year since he’d told Sherlock, ‘I’ve come to stay, if you’ll have me,’ only to receive the prompt reply, ‘Only an idiot wouldn’t.’ In all this time, he’s allowed his mind to wander into these dark and choppy waters, from time to time, but never with the intention of diving in, never actually looking for anything, just…remembering. But now…

 

It’s remarkable, the damage the mind can do to itself, when left alone in the dark without its usual occupations and distractions. 

 

John is three weeks into his convalescence after a particularly wild case led to him all but shatter his right femur, leaving him on strict bedrest for longer than he cares to think about. And he’s four days into Sherlock’s absence after the detective had been called away to consult in Edinburgh. He is also five seasons into a really outrageous American show called “Supernatural”, and about ready to cancel his Netflix subscription. 

 

He’d almost stopped watching “Supernatural” after season two, when one of the protagonists, Dean, had sold his soul to the devil to keep his younger brother, Sam, alive. And he’d almost quit again in season three, when Sam was forced to watch his brother die, over and over, as he kept reliving the same day again and again, nothing he could do to change it. 

 

John understands the kind of grief that leads these fictional brothers to follow each other over their edges into this kind of obsession with each other, this near-madness, he really does, and objectively he realises that it makes for very good television. But when Sam throws himself into Hell to save the world, leaving Dean to try and pick up the threads of a normal life, carry on as if anything can ever be right with the world — saved or not — that’s when John picks up the remote and clicks the TV off. Not wanting to know, not caring, how Sam could have let Dean fumble through a meaningless existence for a year without telling him that he was alive, had made it out of Hell.

 

Some things just hit too close to reality for John to want to spend his free time watching it played out on screen. He doesn’t need a fantasy TV show to remind him of the time, not so long ago in the grand scheme of things, when every night brought bloody nightmares of watching Sherlock fall, over and over again: sometimes pushed, sometimes leaping over the edge, sometimes his fingers just slipping through John’s, a look of blind panic, or confusion, or betrayal,on his pale, pointed face. 

 

His resolution that he doesn’t want to know — doesn’t care — what happens to the Winchesters next, lasts him all of about an hour. After he fumbles through dinner and makes his way painfully through his night time routine, he finds himself propped up in his — Sherlock’s — bed, laptop open in front of him, trawling through blogs and forums. He makes a slight detour to read up on the actors themselves; he’d decided way back in season one that the actor who plays Dean is nothing less than a god, and the look on his face in the episode John had switched off had done nothing but confirm it. John clicks past screencaps from that episode, not wanting to dwell any longer on questions like, “Is that what I looked like when Sherlock was gone?” Or wondering at the fact that none of his friends had put him on suicide watch.

 

Honestly, being cooped up alone in his flat and watching sexy American television is making him so overdramatic he can hardly stand himself.

 

And then he just has to crack a smile, because _Oh_ , he cannot _wait_ to tell Sherlock about this. 

 

Well, that is, once he’s got himself back under control such that the telling of it won’t alert Sherlock as to the reason he was looking in the first place, he’s going to enjoy telling Sherlock that they seem to belong to quite the club. It’s just that it’s too funny, this further confirmation of the fact that as long as two blokes seem to get along all right and aren’t too unfortunate-looking, the people of the internet will inevitably fill in the gaps in their personal lives with speculation — and porn. 

 

It’s just what he needs — the smile that follows after giving up trying to pronounce ‘Jared Pad…a…’ and realizing that someone as smitten as he is with set of exotic eyes and cheekbones that answers to the name of ‘Sherlock Holmes’ ought not to be throwing stones. 

 

One year since he and his flatmate had become _Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson_ again, and once again the snow is falling outside. The frost crystals on the windows once again a veil between him and the world, a safety net — 

 

—Or an invitation for the rest of the world to fuck right off: as he stares out the window at the wavering streetlight, he becomes aware of footfalls on the stairs, a heavy slam of a door, and the regular tramping of impatient feet about the flat. 

 

“John,” Sherlock says, flinging open the bedroom door but not coming in, just wanting an audience as he crashes about the kitchen, making a mess of tea and toast in the only way he knows how. “John, you won’t _believe_ what I have been subjected to this past week.” 

 

John laughs aloud and closes his laptop, bending awkwardly to tuck the thing out of harm’s way beneath the bed, and settles himself back in the pillows to listen to his ridiculous flatmate rattle off the indignities he’s suffered at the hands of reality without John there to act as intermediary. 

 

As soon as he’s well enough to walk and go out on his own, John takes his CV round to various places that might need him. Sherlock barely comments on this; a deviation rare enough to make John sit up and take notice. But Sherlock hasn’t changed; not really. He doesn’t pretend to understand John’s need for some kind of schedule, of an ordinary life outside ofhis adventures with Sherlock, but neither does he question it. And remembering how, just a year ago, Sherlock had all but drifted away from him when he did not — could not — understand John’s turmoil over Sherlock’s sudden reappearance — resurrection — John wants to kiss him.

 

Well. 

 

There is not much about Sherlock that ends in John _not_ wanting to kiss him, so let’s not make a big deal of this.

 

The point is…

 

Well. The point is there, and John swears he’s going to figure it out. Swears he’s going to get it into words in time for his next blog post. But then, you see, Sherlock is off like a shot after a batch of ice cream — a poisonous batch that is going to affect six parlours within a two-mile radius. And John is typing up the account of _The Six Neapolitans_ before he knows it _,_ Sherlock nearly in his lap as he comments and corrects and chides and basically makes a complete nuisance out of himself, before John remembers he was working on something. 

 

“Oh, what is it now?” Sherlock asks, all exasperation, when he catches John staring at him.

 

“Sherlock,” John says, and at his name, the crazed detective softens. He’s so _alive_ , John thinks. He’s living and breathing and about to shake apart with his own crazy energy, right in front of John, and John has this crazy thought that perhaps an excess of living can make up for an excess of dying. 

 

“So,” John clears his throat. “If I mention that you solved this case because you had an attack of the sweet tooth, how much trouble am I going to be in?”

 


End file.
